


Dance in the Dark (aka John's a Free Bitch or the Lady GaGa Chronicles II)

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Divorce, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John has to start over, comfort comes along in an unexpected package—a package with really nice eyebrows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance in the Dark (aka John's a Free Bitch or the Lady GaGa Chronicles II)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdiccas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/gifts).



> Written as a follow-up to [Disco Stick (aka Karl Can't Dance or the Lady GaGa Chronicles)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/145970), in which Chris and Karl are an established couple and John's life, much like the Fresh Prince's, gets flip-turned upside-down. Includes references to various Food Network shows, @JacharyQuinto, and, once again, the GaGa.

It's a series of unfortunate events that leads to John hiding under his lacquered mahogany coffee table. But he can't be bothered to think of that now, not with Karl Urban and Chris Pine barging their way into his apartment and trying their best to coax him out.

The space under the coffee table is safe. Cozy, really. Just enough room for him and his new best friend: a bottle of gin.

"You're drinking gin?" Chris exclaims, pointing at the bottle and looking at Karl in shock. "He's drinking _gin_ , Karl. It's worse than I thought."

"John?" Karl asks quietly. It's as if John's a spooked rabbit that might go running back into the woods at any sign of impending danger. "Why don't you come out from under there, yeah?"

Karl kneels down beside the coffee table and when John lifts his bleary gaze, he can swear there are two Karls swaying before him. They both look concerned, which is silly, because he's _fine_. He's comfy and warm from his booze; plus, here, under the table, no one can hurt him or, you know, cancel his network television show. And then no one can fight with him over the direction of his career and make him feel guilty for getting drunk and blurting out genius things like, _You can't tell me what to do! I flew the fucking Enterprise, I'm awesome!_ by bursting into tears and slamming the front door on the way out.

"Imma stay here," John slurs, curling his legs tighter against his chest. "Go 'way. And take your girlfriend with you."

Suddenly Chris appears beside Karl, crouching and leveling a nasty glare at John. He grabs the bottle of gin out of John's hand and looks it over. "Seriously, Cho. Gin? I knew you were an old man, but not _this_ old."

"Give it," John whines, reaching out for the bottle and nearly falling flat on his face. He props himself up with a hand firmly bunched in the weave of the carpet. "I'm FBI. I'll smoke your ass."

"Excuse me very much," Karl interjects, taking the bottle from Chris, "but that's my job."

Chris scoffs. "If anyone's smoking anyone's ass, it's me smoking yours, Karl. In fact, I grilled that ass just this morning. Smoke everywhere. We had to call the fire marshal, remember?"

Karl turns a distinct shade of red. John groans and wraps his arms around his own head, as if to protect himself from this onslaught of TMI.

"Just get outta here," he mutters. "Leave me to my bottle full of misery."

But, of course, the group's resident power couple won't leave him alone; Chris and Karl think they know everything now that they're fucking like rabbits, and it's obvious they won't make themselves scarce until they get some answers out of John or he passes out altogether. Karl grabs John by his shirt collar and shakes him, giving him a severe arch of the eyebrow. John promptly adds Karl to his mental list of friends with fearful eyebrows.

"Seriously, John. What happened? Just tell us. We want to help you. _Tell us_."

John blinks heavily, feeling queasy as he looks back at Karl. "My marriage is over," he murmurs. A rush of intense heat seems to pass over him.

The next thing he knows, he's lurching forward and puking all over Karl's chest, staining his ridiculously tight button-down shirt. Chris starts to laugh in surprise and Karl's face screws up as if he's about to disembowel John altogether, so rather than deal with that unpleasantness, John opts for that whole passing out thing instead.

Then it's quiet. He knows he'll have to get used to that.

*

John wakes to find himself miraculously placed in his own bed. He's still clothed, which is annoying, though his shirt is rumpled and half of its buttons are undone. He turns his head to cough into his pillow and tries to remember what day it is. Sunday? Tuesday? Whatever it is, it's got to be some awful day of reckoning because his head's pounding, his throat's scratchy, and there's a cold, empty space on the side of the bed where his wife is supposed to be. John takes a deep breath as he makes an effort to sit up and grimaces when his lungs ache. How is it possible that his _lungs_ hurt?

"Fuck," he rasps, rubbing at his left eye. "S'like I deep throated a sandpaper dick."

"I didn't know that was part of your repertoire."

"Holy—" John startles and scrambles back against the headboard, knocking it into the wall with a thud, the loud noise of which makes his headache even worse. He's not so easily spooked, not usually, but he's also not used to a random person making himself at home in his bedroom. A flurry of memories comes rushing back from the night before—John being an asshole, Kerri storming out with Kage, the Brothers Homosexual strolling in and bossing him around like they own the place—and he expects to see Chris or Karl sitting on the edge of the bed when he looks up. He's surprised when it turns out to be neither one of them; rather, there's a familiar pair of sleek Italian caterpillars lifting in amusement before him. "Zach?"

"Day shift," Zach says, as he moves to tip the amazingly ugly hat on his head. "The Gay Brigade wanted to go home and 'touch boners,' as Christopher so helpfully put it. Not that I needed that particular mental image."

"Yeah, no one does." John squints, trying to comprehend all of the events unfolding around him—a task made all the more difficult thanks to a raging hangover. "I thought you were in New York. Also, I think I ralphed on Karl."

"I'm sure he deserved it. And I'm back in town for _Heroes_. Here."

Zach stands and fetches a large glass of water sitting on the nightstand, offering it over. John takes the glass gratefully and gulps, holding it with both hands like a little kid. He _feels_ like a little kid, being watched over by his friends, who are taking up _shifts_ on his behalf, for crying out loud. It's not even that bad, not really. It's not like John won't survive the crushing end of the best thing that ever happened to him. It's not like he needs anyone's shoulder to lean on. Just because he's got a host of bitter divorce proceedings to look forward to now, not to mention alimony payments and custody settlements...just because his life as he knows it is over. Hell, he's been through worse. He lived through a WB sitcom. He'll be _fine_.

"Fuck my life," John says, though it's garbled in the water. He sways forward, water running down his chin, and Zach is quick to prop him up.

"Whoa, whoa," Zach says. He reaches up to wipe John's chin clean with the back of his hand and it's such a selfless gesture that John wants to clutch Zach's arms and cry all over him. "No rush on that water. Take it easy, okay?"

"I'm taking it easy," John huffs. Zach just arches a brow, which John can swear is something he used to do far less often before he took on his Spock role. Damn Quinto and his method acting.

"No, you're thinking too much. Kerri left all of...what? Twenty hours ago? She may yet come back. So stop doing that thing that you do where you—"

"What _thing_? I'm not—"

"That _thing_ you _do_ , where you imagine all of the worst things that could happen and make yourself sick with dread. You do that all the time, John; you _know_ you do." Zach gives him a slightly disapproving look as he takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his thick hair, which John assumes must have at least seven different botanical products in it, despite being covered all this time. "Today is not the day for that. You're going to give Kerri some air and some time to breathe, and I'm going to cook you a nice, greasy breakfast, watch bad television with you and watch over you while you take naps."

"I don't need naps, I'm not a ba—" John cuts himself off with a yawn, about to roll his eyes at Zach's smug grin when his stomach rumbles, too. "Fuckin' traitorous...stupid body. I give you booze and this is how you repay me?"

"Today's schedule," Zach announces, smiling fondly and miming as though he has a checklist before him. "Breakfast. Nap. Oprah."

"I prefer the Food Network," John mumbles.

"Not a problem." Zach reaches out a hand to gently rub John's arm, his eyes warm. "A little _Barefoot Contessa_ is good for the soul, my friend."

And, well. Despite the fact that Zach is being a lot kinder than his usual snarky, bitchy self, John can't argue with that sort of logic. Especially not when Zach is so kind as to sit through three whole hours of the Food Network with him, and to let John fall asleep with his head in Zach's lap halfway through _Barefoot Contessa_. Zach's fingers start to tread along his scalp, John hazily thinks, _Oh, she's making something with butter, shocker_ , and then he's out again.

*

Kerri does come back, eventually. And John puts aside the sardonic quips and retorts that he usually relies on in sticky, emotional situations and sits down with her for a comprehensive, adult conversation about the course of his career and more importantly, the future of their relationship.

The thing is, Kerri wasn't upset when _FlashForward_ got the axe; she was happy. Because she was going to have her husband back. And John, well—he could only think, still can only think—that everything he'd worked for all these years, long before he even met Kerri, was well and truly over.

He's almost positive that he's got her convinced to give the marriage another chance until there's a lull in the conversation—a quiet moment when she looks off toward the window, half-empty glass of juice clutched in one hand and eyes faraway and glassy, looking as pretty as the day he met her but nowhere near as jubilant and good-spirited. It's then that he realizes he couldn't possibly ask her to stay.

Being an adult fucking blows.

That night, Karl comes to visit him alone, no Chris in sight. John pauses in playing with a toy car he stole from the set on the last day and looks up from his self-made seat on the floor after Karl opens the door and holds up an unmarked take-out bag.

"That'd better not be burritos," he warns. Karl laughs amiably and shakes his head.

"Can you stomach some burgers and fries?"

"God, I hope so."

John eats like a man who's been starved for days. He hasn't thought much about food since this whole thing with Kerri first started and the show got cancelled. Karl watches John shovel fries into his mouth, three at a time, licking the excess salt off his fingers, and nods as if he's pleased with this turn of events.

"It's about time you ate something substantial," Karl says. "You've been morphing into a human coat rack in front of all our eyes."

"I'm not _that_ thin," John protests. He looks himself over and thinks of the good old days, when he could be as chubby as he wanted and didn't have to stay lean and rail-thin to get the good roles. Sure, doing the sitcom sucked, but at least he could eat pizza and drink milkshakes whenever he wanted and didn't spend all day running in circles around a set, waving a gun, phaser or katana around in the air. He sighs and sips at his Cherry Coke. "Okay, yeah, I am. I'm Skeletor."

"Not quite. Skeletor had that skull face, but otherwise, he was huge." Karl looks up when he feels John's annoyed glare burning through him. "Not that you aren't quite fetching with your, um...manly, concave chest."

John rolls his eyes and gestures with his soda. "Yeah, yeah. I know I'm not your type, Urban. You like them tall, broad and blue-eyed. All-American asshole."

"He may be an asshole, but he's my asshole." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "And very skilled around an asshole, I might add."

"Ugh. What's with you and the TMI lately? I know you and Pine are in the throes of your intense man love, but it's getting a little... I mean, you must _really_ be—"

"Yeah," Karl quickly says. He throws John a look that neatly completes the sentence without any words and confirms exactly what John was going to say. John exhales and deflates a bit, pushing the tip of a French fry through a smeared puddle of ketchup on the crinkled folds of his burger wrapper.

"You're lucky," he sighs. "To find that again. I'm just so... I don't even know what I'm supposed to do now. I mean, Kerri was just..." He shakes his head, mouth sealing into a tight line. "I thought she was it."

Karl finishes his burger, balling his wrapper up as he chews and tossing it into the open plastic bag. "John, I've been divorced for nearly a year now. Your house still smells of Kerri's perfume. And it will, for a while."

John grits his teeth, then, because yes, she's still here and she might always be here—the smell of her, it's _everywhere_ —and he lets himself get angry for the first time, just a little bit, because who the hell is she to tell him how to live his life? He's an actor, this shit is _important_ , and he didn't spend years doing bit parts in every stupid TV show and movie he could land just to end up as a has-been.

"It's not like I don't love her," he huffs. "I fucking _love_ her. She fucking loves me. I don't see what the fuck is the fucking _problem_."

But of course he does. Love has nothing to do with it, not this time; even Karl seems to know that, given the way he just looks at John with sad, sympathetic eyes and doesn't say anything in response. Of course Kerri can tell him how to live his life; she's his wife, the mother of his child. If he can't make her happy, then what's the point of it all?

"Fuck," John grunts. He slumps against his coffee table, the same one that protected him after the first big blowout fight. He'll never get rid of this coffee table. "I'm such a piece of fucking shit, man."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Karl reaches out and lays a strong hand on John's shoulder, squeezing lightly. John looks up at him, hopeful for answers. Karl's been through this; he'll know what to do. But Karl just sighs, seemingly bereft of any wisdom in this particular matter. "Trust me when I say that you're one of the best people I've ever met, and I have every ounce of faith that you'll meet someone who understands what it's like for you." He tilts his head and gives John the Eyebrow of Doom. "Now, do we have to start pulling shifts again? Because we will if you need the company or, you know, someone to remind you to put some food in your mouth. Pine and Quinto—those two brats have nothing better to do."

"No shifts," John replies. He doesn't want anyone to coddle him or feel responsible for him, and besides, Karl and Chris are still in the midst of their extended honeymoon phase. "But I might want to hang out more."

Karl nods firmly, sipping at his drink. "Absolutely. We'll hang out a ton. Like that'd be a problem anyway."

"Can we go to bars and watch body shots?" he asks hopefully. Karl rolls his eyes with a fond smirk.

"Sure, John. All the body shots you want, you dirty pervert."

John hazards a small smile and wonders to himself if Zach is free for lunch any time soon.

*

It turns out that Zach _is_ free, and free quite a lot, since he's got nothing to do before _Heroes_ starts filming again. They agree to meet at a vegetarian restaurant for lunch, as per Zach's suggestion, and even though John gets a little lost trying to find the place, he still makes it there fifteen minutes before Zach, who's fashionably late as usual. John looks up from the menu—which only has about two appetizing-sounding options—and catches sight of a familiar figure moseying down the sidewalk, hands buried in the pockets of baggy jeans, flip-flops scuffing the pavement, and, of course, a hideous, floppy hat perched on a dark head of hair. Zach's also got a tube strapped to his back, though that's not an unusual sight for Los Angeles.

"Hey," Zach says, grinning as he strides up to John's outdoor table. "So good to see you."

"You, too, man."

John stands from his seat and Zach immediately envelops him in a warm hug, which feels almost ridiculously good. Aside from Karl's reassuring pats and squeezes and Chris' prods, pokes and sloppy cheek kisses, John hasn't enjoyed much human contact lately. He didn't think he'd miss it quite so much.

"Sorry I'm late," Zach says, sitting down. He slips off his sunglasses and squints in the glare of the sun. "I got stuck at—"

"Let me guess: yoga class?"

"You're a master of deduction, Cho." Zach grins brightly at him and John plays it coy, tilting his head and shrugging exaggeratedly.

"It's merely one of my many gifts."

"Right on the list after modesty." Zach hums and peruses the menu, though John assumes he must have it memorized by now. "What looks good to you?"

"I was thinking of getting some watercress sprinkled with salt. And maybe a single baby carrot for some vitamins."

Zach rolls his eyes and crosses his legs. "I'm _positive_ that Urban and Pine haven't gotten a single vegetable into you since they started going over there, so please; let me take this rare opportunity to make sure you consume something that wasn't slaughtered and thrown on a grill, or slathered in breadcrumbs and dipped in scalding oil."

"Mmm," John says, looking off dreamily. "Slaughtered and oily. My favorite."

"I'm serious, John." Zach gives him a vaguely annoyed look, but it doesn't last long. He puts down the menu and picks up the slim glass of ice water before him for a drink; John finds himself a little entranced by how cleanly he sips and swallows. "I worry about you, and not just for the obvious reasons. Though those are the main reasons, admittedly."

John groans faintly, running a hand through his hair. "I'm serious, too. Look, man...I appreciate the concern. And all the friend time is awesome. I mean, I don't think we ever made time to just have lunch before I..."

"No," Zach says, shaking his head and smiling thinly. "I don't think we ever did. We should have, really. I mean...I would have liked that."

"Yeah, me too." John smiles back at Zach, then pulls his gaze away when it approaches the edge of overly intense; Zach's eyes are a crazy rich brown and sometimes they appear even more powerful than Chris' neon-blue irises. "But, you know. I don't need to be coddled." He looks down at his menu, clutched tightly in both of his hands. "I don't want pity. I don't want people hanging around me because they think I'll throw myself off the Golden Gate if they don't."

"Of course not. It would take too long to get there. And, John?" Zach arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow, drumming his fingers on the plastic covering of his menu. "I could be at home right now, watching Sandra Lee bake a cake-like monstrosity and then napping with my cat. So, obviously, I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to spend time with you. Okay?"

John clutches his hand to his chest dramatically. "You chose me over _Sandra Lee_? And queer cuddles with your cat? Zach, I have never been so—"

"Obnoxious? Repugnant? Execrable?"

"Save your SAT-word pillow talk for Pine."

"I'm going to get the lemongrass tofu salad." Zach peers up at John, then, a smug look on his face. "You should come to yoga with me some time, you know. It might help you relax. Center yourself."

John scoffs. "Yeah, or turn me into a pretzel."

"Either way," Zach says, looking around for a server. "It'd be an improvement."

He flags down the nearest server while John ignores him and looks for the missing page of the menu, the one hopefully filled with variants of bacon and fried potatoes. No luck, in the end. He has what Zach's having.

*

Two weeks later, John finds himself standing, completely bewildered, in the middle of a beginner's yoga class. Because he's a sucker, of course. And because Zach cajoled and cajoled and promised to accompany John to a beginner's class, even though he's one of the best in the yoga center's advanced class. He's graceful and lithe, flexible in all the right places, and John is hardly even...

"Awake?" Zach whispers to him from the next mat. John screws up his nose and looks around the dim room.

"Barely," he whispers back. "All I need is some milk and cookies and I'll be ready for a nap."

Zach smirks at him and breathes in deeply, looking completely relaxed in his strange sitting position. His ankles are on the tops of his _knees_ and John has no fucking clue how Zach or anyone else can do such a thing. He thinks back to earlier in the day, when Chris called him out of the blue, noisily snacking on what sounded like some kind of fruit.

"Hey, man," he said, entirely too chipper for eleven in the morning. Which, granted, isn't _early_ , but John's grown accustomed to hiding under the bed sheets until at least one in the afternoon. He was only awake because he had some errands to run before he was meant to meet Zach for plans he felt too guilty to break. "Let's go get some coffee. We can shove socks down our pants and do pelvic thrusts at the paps."

"I—what? No." John furrowed his brow and gave his phone a confused look, as if Chris' face was plastered to the receiver. "I can't. I've got plans with Zach."

"Oh, cool. What're you doing?"

"We're, uh..." John hesitated and frowned. "Going to yoga together."

"Haaa, right. No, seriously, what are you doing?"

"...Fuck my life."

Chris howled and moved the phone away as he hollered into the next room. "Karl! Hey, Karl! John's going to _yoga_ with Zach!" he yelled, and John only heard the accented beginnings of _Why the fuck would he...?_ before Chris shifted the phone back to his ear. "Oh, jesus. What, did you lose a bet? You know, I've _been_ to yoga with Zach before. Never again, man. He's into all this weird shit. Make sure you get the fuck out of there before they start wrapping their legs around their heads. I couldn't sit down to take a shit for a week."

John blinked twice before simply hanging up the phone. Somehow, despite this new information, he still felt too guilty to cancel.

Now, he looks over at Zach suspiciously, wondering when legs are going to start detaching themselves from hips and start flying over respective heads. But Zach's just sitting there peacefully, eyes closed and arms at rest on the tops of his thighs. And somehow, his ankles are still perched on his knees. John looks around at the other members of the class and makes sure no one is paying attention before he attempts to hook his own ankles over his knees. He ends up tipping backward and flailing with a yelp, rolling onto his stomach before he can stop his own momentum. When he looks up again, everyone is out of their respective trances, now staring directly at him. Zach bites his lip in barely restrained amusement and reaches out a hand to help him up.

"The downward dog will be easier," he whispers, and John's eyes go wide in alarm.

"I don't know what that is and I don't want to know," he mutters.

"It's easy," Zach says, shrugging. "Trust me."

Forty-five minutes later, John sits perched on a stool in Zach's kitchen, holding an icepack to his jaw. He frowns over at Zach, who's busy puttering around and studiously avoiding John's withering gaze. Finally, Zach sighs and throws his hands up in the air.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? But I swear, I've never seen _anyone_ lose their balance like that, doing a downward dog. I mean, you are _spectacularly_ klutzy, John. Researchers should observe and study you."

"You owe me," John grunts, leaning one elbow on the countertop. "And I'm never doing that again. I don't care how many of my chakras are misaligned. I like them just as they are, all nice and crooked and shit."

"I suppose your crooked chakras do suit you." Zach steps forward and moves John's hand, the one holding the icepack, to take a look at his swollen jaw. "Why didn't you at least shield your face, genius?"

"It was point three seconds from point A to point B! It's not like I had a lot of time to think on the way down!"

"How you managed to completely miss your mat is _beyond_ me."

Zach laughs amiably as he lets John reapply the ice and then strides over to the fridge, barefoot and still in his yoga outfit. His tank top has a rapidly disappearing streak of sweat down the back and the front collar is low enough to show off some scattered tufts of chest hair. John's seen Zach topless before, but he's never really stopped to think about just how hairy he is; there's dark hair all over his arms as well—a stark contrast to the pale, creamy color of his skin. Zach glances over with a guilty expression, which is silly of him. It's not like he pushed John over, after all.

"I can make it up to you. I'll make you a home-cooked dinner."

"You don't have to do that," John says, waving a hand. "Go through all that trouble, I mean."

"It's no trouble. It'll be great. I love to cook for other people and I hardly ever get to do it." He smiles and opens the fridge with a flourish. "You like baked ziti? I've got all the ingredients."

"Sounds good to me, yeah." John lifts his brow skeptically. "You're going to use soy cheese, aren't you?"

Zach stops in his tracks and gives John a dispirited look. "I can go buy real cheese," he offers. John barks out a laugh and shifts off the stool, tossing the leftover, melting ice from the icepack into the sink.

"I'll get it. Don't worry."

"You sure?" Zach asks. When John nods, he brightens again. "Okay. Oh, while you're there, can you get some romaine for a salad? And a loaf of Italian bread. Oh, and a bottle of red! Merlot, I guess."

John scratches the back of his head and squints at Zach. "...Anything else, dearest?" he chides. Zach shakes his head and pads over to John's side, touching his chest. Then he kisses John's cheek gently, just above the bruised spot on his jaw.

"Nope. Thanks, honey. You're the best."

"To the moon, Alice," John says, blinking rapidly as he turns for the door.

He walks about five blocks in the wrong direction before he realizes what he's doing.

*

Two nights later, Zach Quinto shows up at John's front door in a signature striped shirt with a mess of Tupperware, enough wine to paralyze a small elephant, and a crooked, mischievous smile.

"Leftovers?" he asks. "Unless I'm interrupting something."

John's so hungry, he could kiss him. Instead, he ushers him inside with a sigh of relief.

"Thank god, I was about to eat my own fingers."

"Tasty, I'm sure, but no redeeming nutritional value."

John closes the door behind them and scoffs as Zach walks toward the kitchen. "You don't know. Maybe I'm chock-full of fiber and...zinc."

"If that's the case, remind me to gnaw on your shoulder the next time I need to pop a Centrum Silver."

Forty minutes later, they're slumped on John's sofa, halfway through both an episode of _Chopped_ and the second bottle of wine. John busies himself with scraping the last of Zach's admittedly _amazing_ baked ziti from his plate. It somehow tastes just as good as it did when Zach first cooked it, two days earlier—one half of the pan covered in real cheese for John and one half with soy cheese for Zach. John had done his part, though; he'd picked out a _killer_ loaf of bread, the crustiest of the bunch. Zach had made sure to congratulate him on the show of culinary expertise, which John happily accepted, even if it was one-hundred percent sarcastic.

"This guy," Zach says, idly pointing to the television with the hand that's not holding a rather full glass of wine. "I hate this guy."

John rolls his head back onto the top of the cushion to regard Zach. He needs all the help he can get, now that gravity is starting to turn against him. "Hate's a pretty strong word, Zachary."

"He's too cocky. And his technique sucks balls."

"Big, hairy balls," John agrees.

"Hairy balls in desperate need of a wax."

"Yeah, well, why don't you call him up and give him the number of your..."

John trails off, motioning to his own eyebrows and Zach immediately blushes, reaching up instinctively to touch the dark strips that often inspire, as John once described, a potent dose of awe. He laughs and tugs on Zach's arm to keep him from covering them up. Truthfully, John kind of likes Zach like this—his defenses down and subject to actual embarrassment, not flinging around big words from the most obscure pages of the dictionary and acting like he's the expert on everything. Zach is always so _on_. John has to admit that he's often the same way.

"Aw, come on; I'm just kidding. Your eyebrows are fucking cool. They're, like...furry works of art."

"What?" Zach asks, sounding halfway offended; then he laughs loudly and shakes his head. "You're crazy, man. Don't...ahhh!" He moves to shield his brow bone again, shifting away from John's side. "I'm self-conscious, okay?"

"Why? They're so perfect."

And for a moment, John forgets everything else in the world that's not his age-old, burning desire to _touch_ one of those eyebrows, and he reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb delicately along the right one, slowly, from one tapered end to the other. Zach bites his lip and doesn't a move a muscle until John reaches the tip; then he shivers and diverts his eyes, looking strangely—and John can barely _believe_ this—shy. John swallows as he draws his hand back and the dryness in his throat makes him cough.

"I mean, they're just...they're nice," he says, in an attempt to fill the silence. "How do you get them so clean?"

"I wax, like you said," Zach sighs, his eyes still elsewhere as he nods. "And pluck for maintenance. It's a pain, but..."

"Right." John tilts his head and motions to his own eyebrows, which he knows are a little overly bushy, though he usually can't be bothered to care. "Hey, maybe you could do mine some time. Before they take over the West Coast?" Zach finally looks at him, then, and he laughs at the cheesy grin on John's face.

"You know yours suit you just the way they are." He sips his wine and shrugs. "You always look great. Hell, you look younger than you did ten years ago. Maybe you could stand to gain five pounds, but...yeah. You look good."

John searches Zach's face for a few moments, gaze treading over those entrancing eyebrows again. Then he leans against Zach's side, looking back at the television.

"Well, keep bringing me leftovers and maybe I will," he says. He can feel Zach shrug one shoulder, see him purse his lips out of the corner of his eye.

"Maybe I will." He pauses. "Also."

John laughs and quickly empties his glass. "More wine?" he asks, raising the glass in the air. Zach nods and leans forward for the bottle.

"Definitely more wine."

*

Chris is busy doing an approximation of a victory dance when Zach brings over a fresh round of beers. Really, it's more like a random flailing of limbs with a stupid grin plastered on his face for good measure. Karl gets up from his chair to give Chris a high-five when the overhead screen flashes "STRIKE" over and over. John takes his much-needed beer from Zach's grip.

"You think they high-five in bed?" he asks, watching Karl ruffle Chris' hair affectionately. Zach smirks and sips from an oversized plastic cup, then drapes his free arm along the back of John's seat.

"I would be utterly shocked if they didn't," he says.

"That's another strike for Team Awesome!" Chris exclaims, pointing over at John and Zach, sitting in their day-glo plastic chairs. "You guys are going down! All the way down, too. Ball-gargling territory."

John and Zach look equally affronted by the image. "Dude," John says, shaking his head. "Must you bring up your sex life in public? Next, you'll be talking about pube flossing."

"Hairballs," Zach adds dryly, drinking from his beer again.

Karl waves his hands dismissively. "This is disgusting. Stop, please. Quinto, you're up."

"I trim my—oh, fine." Chris huffs, sitting down with a thump, which makes Zach laugh as he stands up to play.

John reaches up and pats Zach's behind lightly. "Come on, Zach, murder-bowl it," he says. Zach looks back at him quizzically for a moment, as if he doesn't quite know how to react, but then he smiles broadly and chooses a bowling ball, heading to the lane. John's so busy watching him go that he doesn't notice Chris and Karl exchanging a look of fierce amusement. Chris snorts into his fist and John glances over. "What?"

"Dude. You just patted Zach's ass. This isn't football."

"It's moral support!" he counters.

Karl scoffs and crosses one denim-clad leg lazily over the other. "I think you two have been spending a little too much time together."

"Whatever, man," John says, shaking his head. He watches as Zach knocks down a mere three pins. Bowling isn't exactly either of their fortes. Karl's not that great at it either, but he has Chris, who seems to be good at every fucking sport and recreational activity on the planet. "Speaking of, when are we checking out that new bar by your place, Karl?"

Karl shrugs. "How about Friday night?"

"Sure—oh, wait. Shit. I can't. I'm doing dinner with Zach that night."

Chris looks at his phone's calendar. "Saturday, then? I could do Saturday."

John thinks and shakes his head. "Saturday's no good, either. Zach and I are checking out this play he wants to see." At that moment, a loud crashing sound rings out from down the lane and Chris and Karl exchange a look that makes John's mouth twitch. "What?" he asks again, more defensively this time.

"John, man," Chris says, laughing as he looks back at him. "You do realize you're dating Zach, right?"

"...What?!" John leans back and squints, taken completely by surprise. "We're not...I mean, _what_?"

"Definitely dating," Karl drawls, pulling from his beer bottle.

"Who's dating?" Zach interjects, walking over with a big grin on his face. "Hey, John, did you see? I bowled a spare!"

"Yeah, John, did you see?" Chris needles, elbowing John's side. John jostles and somehow resists the urge to punch him hard in his kneecap.

"No, man. I missed it. Sorry."

"Oh, well...that's okay. It may never happen again, though." Zach looks disappointed for a half-second, but then he simply sits down, picking up his beer for another sip. "So, who's dating?"

"You and John," Chris answers cheerily.

Zach proceeds to choke on his beer.

"Dude, cut it out!" John complains, patting Zach's back until he stops coughing. "Jesus. I mean, I can't even believe that _I'm_ the one saying this, but don't you think you're being immature? We're just hanging out. And, fuck. It _helps_ me, okay?"

Chris looks a little chastened at John's words and he sighs, shrugging. "Yeah...okay. You're right, man. I'm sorry. It just sort of seems like—I mean, with all the hanging out you've been doing...?"

Everyone's eyes seem to flit to Zach, then. He's still slightly red in the face from coughing, so it's hard to tell if he's actually blushing to match the chagrined look on his face. He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, looking out at the lane.

"I'm just doing what any good friend would do," Zach confirms. John nods and lets out a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"That's kinda too bad, if you ask me," Chris says. "You're both awesome. And I can't even _remember_ the last time you went on a date, Zach."

Zach's shoulders stiffen at those words and he keeps his eyes diverted, even as John throws him a surprised look. John hasn't really thought much of the fact that Zach seems to always be free for lunch and dinner dates with him; it's strange to think that Zach couldn't get a _real_ date with someone deserving.

It's never occurred to John that Zach might be just as lonely as he is.

"All right, leave it alone," Karl says as he gets up to bowl. He banters with Chris as he heads to the lane and John tunes them out, now all too conscious of Zach's presence in the neon plastic seat beside him.

"I have to pee. Watch my beer?" Zach says suddenly. He leaves before John can even answer. Nearby, Chris whoops loudly as Karl picks up another strike. John exhales and looks up to check the score, noting Zach's recent spare, which he didn't get to see. He wishes he had. Either way, they're still behind and almost certainly bound to lose.

*

John manages to get that last dinner and one lunch out of Zach before he goes back to filming _Heroes_ and ostensibly falls off the face of the Earth. He has half a mind to think Zach might be ignoring him—those last meals were mighty awkward, no thanks to Karl and Chris Douchelaw Pine—but there's no real proof and therefore, no reason to be annoyed, so he gives Zach the benefit of the doubt and simply assumes he's busy.

He does miss Zach, though, considering how often he was around right after Kerri left—which, amazingly, was almost three months ago. Every time he goes to Starbucks, he considers ordering a soy latte to fill the void; then he reminds himself that doing so would ruin his coffee and he gets his usual instead.

A few weeks after that, though, it doesn't matter much. John packs up to go on location for the next _Harold and Kumar_ flick and doesn't bother telling anyone but Karl that he's leaving town. Which is why it's stupid that he then spends most every night in his shitty Michigan hotel room, staring at his phone and willing Zach to call, and then going to bed annoyed when Zach doesn't.

It's not until the night that John sits down to watch the rerun of _Chopped_ that he saw that time with Zach and texts him— _Ball-sucking chef ep of Chopped on, thinking of you_ —that he realizes he might actually have a little crush on Zach. Not to mention a penchant for sending wildly inappropriate and innuendo-laden text messages.

And frankly, that's even _more_ stupid. Zach is a sassy, handsome gay man, after all, and John just spent the last few years being married and having a kid. Then again, Karl did the same thing and then seemed to find bliss with Chris, of all people. And Karl has _two_ kids. But what if he's imagining his crush altogether? The last person in the world he wants to hurt is Zach, considering how selfless and nice he's been throughout John's mini-meltdown. But then, what if he _is_ interested and Zach doesn't feel the same way? Surely Zach could do better than some weepy, divorced breeder with a concave chest. Couldn't he? And goddamn it—isn't John doing the exact thing Zach said he always does? He is; he can feel it. The dread is fucking _palpable_.

John's about ready to either shove his head under a pillow or pitch the TV remote across the room when his phone rings. He picks up without checking to see who's calling.

"Hello?" John winces at how strained his voice sounds. His jaw aches from clenching his teeth.

"Boy, you sound wrecked," Karl says on the other end. "Bad time?"

John runs a hand through his hair. "No, it's fine. I think my PA slipped decaf into my coffee mug, so I'm arranging to have him killed. What's up?"

"I thought I'd let you know that Zach went back to New York."

"Uh huh." He squints at the opposite wall. "And I needed to know that...why?"

"I just thought—"

John gets a call on the other line, then, and the signal blocks out half of Karl's words. "Hold on," he says, then switches over with an annoyed sigh. "Yeah, hello?"

"You don't sound too thrilled to hear from me," Zach says, and damn if John can't _hear_ his smile on the other end. He laughs suddenly and sits up, feeling instantly better at the sound of Zach's voice.

"Whoa, hey. I didn't know it was you; I would've..." But he trails off, not knowing what to say. He's been waiting for weeks for Zach to call and now he doesn't seem to have a single coherent thought in his head. That can't be good. "Um. It's good to hear from you, for real."

"Well, I got your highly amusing text and I was just sitting around, so I figured I'd call. I got back into New York yesterday and _Heroes_ wrapped last week."

"Yeah, I figured you were busy."

John grabs the remote from the edge of the bed and turns off the television, effectively dismissing the ball-sucking chef. Now that it's completely quiet in the room, he can hear Zach sigh under his breath, like he needs to get something off his chest—like he needs to say something big.

"Well, I was, but... I've been thinking a lot and I ought to confess something to you, which is just that...well. I was kind of avoiding you for a while. And I know this sounds stupid, but I was thinking about what Chris and Karl said at the bowling alley—"

Yeah, John is going to pretty much kill Chris.

"—and then Chris and I talked it over some more—"

Straight-up murder his ass. Done and done.

"—and I realized that I _was_ developing some...feelings. For you. Which was probably natural, given how much time we were spending together."

"Feelings? For me?" John bites his lip, not daring to believe him. "But I'm all...neurotic and sarcastic and...a train wreck. Remember?"

"That last part's just temporary. I mean, your whole life got turned upside-down; I think you're allowed to freak out a little. I would have, and without nearly as much bravery."

"You would have been all Zen about it, probably."

"See, I even like that you're too neurotic to accept a fucking compliment. Because you're your own worst critic, you know? Because you want to be a better person. When really, you're funny and kind and supportive... Hell, I've always admired you, John." There's a quick beat before Zach starts talking again, faster than before. "But, um, anyway, it just raises a whole ton of unwarranted expectations and isn't fair to you at _all_ , considering that, you know, you were still happily _married_ a few months ago. Plus, we've both got our own projects going on and you're probably not looking for any kind of relationship, let alone some random rebound fling, nor should you be, and you're probably straight as an arrow anyway and, um..."

"Um," John repeats, staring into space. Zach breaks the silence with an awkward laugh.

"Um, yeah. Brain dump, I know. But don't worry; I took some time for myself and those feelings are _completely_ done with now. I just wanted to be honest with you and let you know why I've been acting so strangely, because... Well, god knows I don't want to be like Chris and Karl, kidding themselves about their feelings and then rushing into things, hoping it works out for the best. You know?"

And John wants to answer Zach coherently; really, he does. But his heart's sort of been reduced to a pancake in his chest and it's weighing on his lungs and making it hard to produce sound. Or something like that.

"Absolutely," he finally manages to say. And since that's clearly not enough of a response, he searches for something more. "I'm, um...glad you worked it all out, man."

"Yeah," Zach replies. He sounds vaguely disappointed, but John can't tell for sure. Hell, he can't tell much of anything anymore. Ever since Kerri left, he's felt like a bumbling idiot, trying to rediscover himself and start all over again. And without Zach around to ground him, it's even worse; it's like crashing a party where he doesn't know a single soul. Like shutting off the lights in a crowded room and trying to dance in the dark. Without getting maimed by a sharp corner, that is.

John doesn't say anything, so Zach takes it upon himself to fill in the quiet again.

"So...when will I see you next? Pre-Trek party, I guess, huh?"

"Right, Trek. Sneaking up on us."

"Before you know it," Zach adds. There's another awkward pause and John half-wonders if he could make a necklace out of them, like macaroni. "Well, I'll let you go. Sorry again for all the babbling. Just thought you should know."

"No, I—I'm glad you were able to tell me," John says in his most serious voice. And he is glad. Because now he knows he has no chance and that's better than a steaming pile of false hope festering in the back of his mind. "Sounded...y'know. Cathartic."

Zach laughs amiably. "Something like that, sure."

They say their goodbyes and John almost forgets that Karl's still on the other line. He switches over quickly. "Hey. Uh...sorry that took so long."

"No worries," Karl says, a hint of concern in his voice. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah." John shuts his eyes and flops down onto his side. "It's all good."

And if he ends up jacking himself off furiously later, under the bed covers in the dark of his hotel room, thinking of Zach's eyes and mouth and _eyebrows_ , of all things, well...that's just him being stupid. Again.

*

It's the same club where Chris and Karl got together. The _same fucking club_.

John sits in the back of a taxi and stares at the entrance for a full minute before the driver tells him, in no uncertain terms, to get the hell out of his cab. And he does, but he isn't happy about it. He tells himself that if Chris and Karl start groping each other on the dance floor out of nostalgia, that he's totally out of there. When they're already groping as John walks into the club, he realizes he may have to amend that plan if he actually wants to see the entire cast.

"Oh, hey, John," Chris says, still practically mid-kiss with his boyfriend. Karl's hand immediately moves away from its perch on Chris' ass and he has the decency to appear slightly embarrassed as they all exchange hugs and back pats.

"You two are fucking lucky this is a private party," John says, smirking. "And we're all used to your spit-swapping and disappearing hands."

"Hey, we inspire each other." Chris shrugs and glances up at Karl, who gives him a look that outwardly reads as mild annoyance but which John knows is all fondness and affection. He tries to ignore the answering pang of jealousy in his gut and offers a requisite smile.

"I'm gonna go mingle," he says. He feels their joint stare as he walks away.

John's only been back in L.A. for a week, so it's been ages since he's seen all his old friends. Luckily, everyone's kind enough to avoid the obvious, heart wrenching questions, merely asking if he's doing well and leaving it at that. Simon buys him a beer and a shot with a sympathetic smile but says nothing otherwise. John knew he always liked Simon. He doesn't see Zoe until they bump shoulders, just as she emerges from the restroom.

"Sorry, I didn't—hey, Zoe!"

"John!" She grins at him, sunny and bright, and flings her arms around his shoulders, kissing his cheek. "God, it's been ages!"

"That's just because you never return my calls." He kisses her in return, breathing in her perfume, which smells perfectly Zoe—not overpowering or cloying at all. "It's all the crying in my messages, isn't it? You can tell me."

"Hush, you know I adore you." She wags a finger at him. "Though I'm pissed you became single when I'm not single, too. That's just not fair."

John scoffs. "Like I could compete with that dreamy boyfriend of yours."

"He is pretty dreamy. But he ain't no John Cho." Zoe pats his arm and smiles warmly. "Let me know when you're up for dating again, though. I have a friend who would be perfect for you."

John's bites his tongue so he doesn't go running his mouth and outright ask if her perfect friend might be someone whose name rhymes with "Machary Flinto." He clears his throat and scratches the back of his head.

"Yeah, cool. Um...hey, you haven't seen Zach, have you?"

Zoe lifts her brow. "You didn't hear? His flight from New York got delayed. He's going to be here later."

"Oh. Okay, well, if—"

Just then, a slightly soused Chris Pine runs up to John's side, grabbing him with both arms and leaning forward to kiss Zoe's cheek, nice guy that he is. "Zoe, I hate to pull this dashing gentleman away from your ethereal presence, but I've got a bit of a proposition for him."

"Oh, this should be good," Zoe says. Not surprisingly, she doesn't stay to hear the details. John blinks as Zoe struts off and looks at Chris dubiously.

"Proposition?" he repeats.

"Two words," Chris says, holding up three fingers, then correcting himself. "Body shots."

John feels his eyebrows lift all the way up to his forehead in interest. "Body shots?"

*

Five shots of tequila later, consumed with streaks of salt laid along Zoe's thigh, Chris' stomach, and various body parts of various women (likely all giggly friends of Anton's), and John's perched atop a table, holding a beer in one hand and a fresh shot in the other, gyrating to a random Lady GaGa song, occasionally chiming in with the lyrics.

"I'm a FREE BITCH, BABY!" he shouts. Then he slams back the shot. The tequila stopped burning his throat a few rounds ago.

"John, get down from there!" Karl hisses. As if he's never similarly embarrassed himself in this very bar, thanks to a fucking Lady GaGa song. John lets Karl help him down and drunkenly stumbles into his arms.

"We're, like, the same guy," he slurs. "You an' me, we're brothers."

"Of course we're brothers," Karl agrees. He sounds amiable enough but he's still looking at John as though there's a tree branch growing from his forehead. "But how are we the same guy?"

"Duh? 'Cause we both didn't know we were gay 'til we got divorced. Get with the program, Urban."

Karl's eyes go comically wide. "Excuse me?"

There's a sudden flurry of noise near the club's entrance, then, and when John blearily lifts his head, he can see Zach, wearing his stupid hipster glasses and his stupidly tight hipster jeans and stupid American Apparel cardigan with a blazer on top of that, and who even dresses like that, for Christ's sake?

John feels the thrum of his heartbeat, pulsing faster than the music. He shifts out of Karl's arms to go over there and Karl, the contrary bastard, immediately grabs a hold of John's shirt and yanks him back.

"Stay where you are," Karl warns. "You're not talking to him when you're drunk and...having some sort of mid-life sexuality crisis."

John shakes his head brusquely because no, no, no, that won't do at _all_. "You don't think I've sucked dick? I've sucked _plenty_ of dick. I went to fucking Berkeley and I fucking _majored_ in sucking dick."

"Hey, me too!" Chris says, ambling over. "Who was your advisor?"

"God, am I glad to see you guys," John hears next. It's Zach, making his way over after greeting the people by the doors, and he looks _adorable_ , damn him. New York's obviously treated him well. Zach slings an arm around Chris' shoulders and gives him a squeeze, then touches John's arm fondly. "John, hey," he says. He licks his lips and quirks a crooked smile, and John is officially way too drunk for this.

"Hey, yeah," John slurs. He sways close to Zach and lifts both hands to cup his face, running the pads of his thumbs reverently over those enigmatic eyebrows. He fucking _missed_ those eyebrows, and he apparently says as much aloud, because Zach stiffens and Karl's hauling him away before he can really get a good look.

"He's drunk," Karl tries to explain. "And thinks he's gay, apparently."

"I'm not gay; I'm _John Cho_."

"Pansexual, then?" Chris tries, sipping a cocktail. Zach cringes, looking incredibly uncomfortable with this sudden turn of events.

"Um," Zach says. "I think we need to talk."

Zach takes John by the arm and leads him away from the others, pulling him into a secluded corridor by the restrooms. He adjusts his glasses as he tries to gather his thoughts; John just stands and smiles dumbly. He _knows_ he's smiling dumbly but he can't really help himself. He's just so happy to see Zach. And multiple parts of him are sharing in said happiness.

"Obviously, I missed something," Zach says. "What's this about you being, um...gay?"

"No, listen, it's just...I want you," John blurts. He laughs nervously when Zach looks at him in undisguised shock. "I like your—your soy-chugging, dictionary-reading, pretzel...butt."

That seems to make Zach laugh, too, if only just a little. "Pretzel butt. Wow." He bites his lip and shakes his head. "That's sweet, I think. But you don't... I _can't_ , John. You're drunk and still upset about the divorce and—"

John groans. "Fuck, that was, like, seven months ago!"

"You have a kid," Zach protests. Even drunk on too much tequila and beer, it appears to John as though Zach's trying to talk _himself_ out of this, more so than anyone else. "You're straight, you—you were married and you had a terrible divorce."

"Not _that_ straight. And it could've been worse."

"It doesn't matter. You don't really want this. You're confused because I was there for you when you needed someone. I mean, you didn't say anything when I..." Zach gestures randomly, fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan and tugging on the cuffs of his fitted blazer, and god, he looks _ridiculous_. It's sexy as fuck.

John pulls him in close by his biceps and kisses him hard.

And after two seconds of struggle, Zach gives in and kisses him _back_ and it's so fucking good to kiss someone, to kiss _Zach_. There's a brief flash of teeth, a rough swipe of tongue, and John distantly wishes his breath didn't reek of booze, but it can't be helped, not now. He tries to gain entrance into that hot, slightly open mouth, tries to slot their hips together, but Zach wrenches away, leaving John at a loss. Then they just stare at each other, both panting.

"Fuck, John," Zach whispers. He exhales shakily and runs a hand over his forehead. "Asshole. You know I can't just—"

"Why?" John demands. "Why can't you? And why... Why can't I have what they have? You know? Karl and Chris, they just—fuck, it's like, Karl leaves his wife and boom; right away, he gets another chance. Chris is right fucking _there_ and there's no drama; they just throw caution to the wind and they get to be together. Why can't we do that, too, Zach? You said you have feelings...and that's awesome, 'cause I have feelings, too! So, why not, huh? Why can't I have this?"

"Because you're not Karl and I'm not Chris and we're not _them_." Zach purses his lips, his hands balled at his sides. "Not everyone finds predestined love in a fucking Lady GaGa song. So, just...go home, John, okay? Go home."

John can only blink in bewilderment as Zach goes back to the party. He slumps against the wall and shuts his eyes tiredly, only opening them again when Karl finds him a few minutes later.

"There you are," Karl says. He rubs John's shoulder. "Need a lift home?"

John nods and thinks that he should have high-tailed it out of there the minute that Lady GaGa song started playing. Lady GaGa's nothing but shiny spandex and trouble.

*

When John pries his eyes open the next day, he has three immediate thoughts:

1\. This is not his bedroom.  
2\. He's insanely hung over.  
3\. Something distinctly Chris Pine–shaped is lying on his back.

"Dude, get _off_ ," John whines, squirming beneath the weight of Chris' body. "You're fucking heavy, fat-ass."

"Hey!" Chris sounds more offended than he looks, shifting off John and sitting on the bed beside him. "Don't call me fat in my own house. That's rule number two."

John rubs his back and thinks that he doesn't want to know rule number one. "We're at your place? I thought we were going to—"

"Karl drove us here. He's inside, making coffee. You fell asleep as soon as we got you in the car, man." Chris shrugs and picks up his iPhone, scrolling through his secret Twitter account that the rest of them aren't allowed to know about. "And don't look so freaked out. Everyone ends up in my bed, eventually."

"Um. Have you heard from Zach?" John asks cautiously, ignoring Chris' remark. Chris nods and holds out the phone so John can see the screen.

"See for yourself," he says. John squints and reads the tweet, then the fake one from @JacharyQuinto right above it.

 _nyc again. won't walk away. but i won't look back. necessary. nap._

 _BACK IN DA BIG APPOLZ. BUMPIN' LADY GAGA. HELLA JET-LAGGED, SON._

John blinks. "He's sending me subliminal messages over Twitter."

"Basically." Chris yawns and stands, stretching as he leaves the room. "I'd shower if I were you. Haven't changed those sheets in a while."

John nearly maims himself in his frantic rush to get out of the bed.

*

Zach doesn't even look surprised when he opens his apartment door.

"So, you're stalking me now?"

"Yes. Get used to it." John gestures to his backpack. "And I only brought two changes of clothes, so I may have to borrow some of your yoga twink outfits. Also, I feel it's my duty, as your friend in possession of two working eyeballs, to point out that you're wearing a headband."

Zach pouts and touches the strip of fabric holding his hair away from his forehead. "It's an _exercise head wrap_."

"Yeah, no, it looks incredibly masculine. I'm all _a-twitter_."

John gives him a meaningful look as he strides into Zach's apartment, bumping his shoulder. Zach laughs after a moment, and John's heart beats just a little less fast than it did the entire way over here from L.A.

*

Though John assumes it's described on Twitter as stalking or pestering or something else unflattering, he and Zach actually spend a nice evening together, walking around the city and enjoying the anonymity that New York tends to provide. They avoid discussing the night before, which is probably not the _smartest_ of ideas, but John's certainly not going to complain. He barely even remembers half of what he said to Zach, though he knows it culminated in a dramatic moment that involved a kiss. That part's not easy to forget; when John licks his lips, he swears he can still taste Zach. He licks his lips so often that they have to stop at a drugstore for ChapStick.

They end up sitting on a bench on the west side, looking out at the Hudson River. They're both visibly exhausted from their respective flights, but Zach had his afternoon nap and John's still on West Coast time.

"Well, this is romantic," John murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. He exchanges a glance with Zach and they both smirk.

"Is that why you came here? For a romantic moment?"

"Well, that, and you were sending me secret messages over Twitter, using Lady GaGa lyrics. I feel like I owe Jachary Quinto a fruit basket for deciphering that one for me."

"I'm halfway convinced Chris writes that Twitter, anyway."

John looks thoughtful. "That would make a lot of sense, actually. But he'd probably want a porn basket." Zach laughs beside him.

"You think they engineered this whole thing? Chris and Karl?"

"Nah," John says, shaking his head. "To be honest...I had feelings for you even before I did whatever ridiculous, fucked-up things I did last night."

"From what I hear, you danced on a table, licked salt off Chris' stomach, announced that you were gay, fondled my eyebrows, called yourself a ‘free bitch'..." Zach's counting off on his fingers when John stops him, grabbing one of his hands with his own.

"Okay, yes, thank you for the recap." He laughs awkwardly. "I also kissed you. I remember that much. And you pulled away. And I have it under good advisement that I'm an awesome kisser, so what's _that_ about?"

Zach nods faintly, looking down at their joined hands. "It's just...it's been a long time since I let myself actually like someone, okay? I didn't want to let myself think...I mean, if it's not _true_..."

John shakes his head, still not quite understanding. "Why wouldn't you let yourself like someone? Don't you see how great you—"

"Tell me more, Mister I'm-a-Neurotic-Train-Wreck," Zach replies dryly.

Okay, so maybe John doesn't have the market cornered on relationship issues. He can live with that.

"Quinto...come on. I went to a _yoga class_ for you. You think I would subject myself to that for just anyone? It's like that time in college when I went to a pottery class to impress this guy who had a total boner for _Ghost_."

"A guy, huh?" Zach quips, his eyes softening as he relents a bit. "How did I miss all the details of your sordid homo past?"

"Because you were too busy tucking me in at night and assuming that marriage equals heterosexuality? Way to be open-minded, Saint Quinto of Silverlake."

Zach doesn't reply, simply arches one of his voluptuous eyebrows, and shit, the dude just doesn't play _fair_. John pretends to pout at him, though his stomach is doing back flips at how fucking hot Zach looks right now, in the fading New York City dusk. Sans headband, thankfully.

"Stop," John commands, pointing his free index finger at Zach—the one that's not currently wrapped around Zach's fingers. "Or I'll fondle your eyebrows again."

"Mmm, is that a promise?" Zach asks, leering. John tips his head back with a loud laugh.

"Fuck, you're really—" he starts, but then Zach is kissing him, _kissing him_ , and it doesn't even matter what he was going to say because all he wants to do is kiss back. As far as John is concerned, their entire exchange has been foreplay; his cock is already stirring in his jeans as he licks into Zach's warm and open mouth, meeting with zero resistance this time, just the curl and flexibility of Zach's fucking talented tongue. John shifts closer when he feels Zach's hand untucking his button-down, pushing its way beneath the cotton to touch John's skin. He breaks the kiss to gasp his response, the electric touch scrambling all his brainwaves.

"...begging for it," he finishes, a whisper against Zach's grinning mouth.

"You are," Zach replies. He squeezes lightly between John's legs and then stands, pulling John up by his arm. "Come on, let's get a cab."

"Jesus, Quinto, you're gonna pay for that."

"Maybe I'll let you fondle something else this time."

Then John's the one racing ahead, pulling Zach toward the sidewalk.

*

"What the fuck is taking so long? Just put it in."

"I'm _trying_ to, John, but you keep—fuck. Just gimme a—"

"Oh, just let me do it."

John stops touching Zach's ass long enough to grab the keys from his hand and open the apartment door himself. Zach huffs when it unlocks easily and John ushers him inside.

"I'm still getting used to them," Zach explains. "And you do realize how that entire exchange must have sounded to my kindly, heterosexual neighbors, don't you?"

"Probably exactly how it was." John pushes Zach back against a wall and nips at his mouth. "And since when are you _any_ good at determining who's heterosexual and who's not?"

"If only I'd read through the Berkeley yearbook to see that fellatio major of yours." Zach smiles and grips John's hips, slightly breathless. "I might need to see some practical application. A defense of your thesis."

"Sure."

John kisses him hard, sucking at Zach's bottom lip before pulling back and dropping to his knees, unbuckling his belt. He knows he's going to be a little rusty at this, considering that he never cheated on Kerri and mostly dated women before her. John glances up at Zach and he seems to get it, nodding with a faint smile and sliding his fingers through John's flight-mussed hair. John gets Zach's stupidly tight jeans down his hips with a fair amount of struggle and then noses against the pronounced bulge in his boxer briefs, reacquainting himself with the sensation. John darts his tongue against the navy-colored fabric and runs his hands up and down Zach's thighs, from the furry patches to the smooth stretches of pale skin that lead up to his groin. Zach's cock throbs against his lips in time with a shaky moan from above, and John doesn't wait any longer to free his waiting length. He runs his fingers slowly along the hardening shaft, back to his balls, and notes that all the hair below Zach's navel is just as finely manicured as his eyebrows. _Shocker_ , John thinks, as he takes the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue.

"Fuck, _John_ ," Zach groans after a few moments. His head is tilted back and mouth parted, back arching beautifully away from the wall. "See...knew you were doubting yourself, could see it...but you're so fucking good, John, so good..."

John pauses in his bobbing and passes a hand over his crotch to quell the throbbing happening inside his own jeans, just for a moment. "Must not be doing that well if you can still ramble like that."

"So shut me up," Zach teases. John laughs and rolls his eyes.

"As if anyone could."

He returns to laving and sucking at Zach's cock, everything coming back to him as he works at the thick, leaking length. _Like riding a bike_ , John thinks, _except with one-hundred percent more penis._ He wets two of the fingertips stroking along the base of the shaft and slides them back along Zach's perineum, tapping at his entrance, as if to make his intentions known. Zach, to his credit, stops himself from bucking into John's throat.

"God, stop or I'll come," he warns. John pulls back, afraid that things might end prematurely on his side as well.

"Yeah, let's get more naked." He tugs Zach's jeans down to his knees and grunts when he can't get the denim anywhere beyond that point. "Where the fuck did you buy these? Baby Gap?"

"They have zippers," Zach says breathlessly, shucking off his shirts and toeing off his shoes. "By the ankles?"

"You've got to be shitting me."

"They're in this season!"

"Fucking hipster," John mutters, undoing the zippers and _finally_ getting Zach's jeans off. He's about to complain some more until he stands and gets a load of Zach completely naked, dark hair falling down over his eyes in a way that should be illegal in forty-eight states. Just not New York or California. "Jesus, Zach," he says, swallowing. "If you ever wear that headband again, I'll kill you."

"Noted." Zach grins wolfishly and makes quick work of the buttons on John's shirt, kissing him and steering him backward. "Bedroom, Cho."

By the time John gets into the bedroom, he's topless and barefoot, a trail of clothes left behind on Zach's floor in their wake. He falls back onto the bed when his knees hit the edge and Zach is on him in seconds flat, all feline reflexes and bendy limbs. God bless yoga, even if it is a trip to the ER waiting to happen. Zach works on John's fly and erases the terrible distance between their bodies, sucking John's lips into a hungry kiss. John bucks helplessly with the combination of Zach's tongue in his mouth and his hand down his pants. He's not sure he could have survived college if someone like Zach had been there with him.

As soon as his remaining clothes are gone and his cock is freed, it's met with the burning hot length of Zach's dick, still damp with John's saliva and rubbing tantalizingly back and forth against him. John moans Zach's name loudly and grabs at his shoulders, kissing any part of Zach's face he can reach: his swollen lips, his stubbled cheek, his pointed chin. Zach grips both of their cocks at once, thumbing over John's slit, and John can't take it anymore—he wraps a leg around Zach and calls up some unknown reserve of strength to flip them over. The move is met with breathy laugher from Zach.

"You want something, John?" he asks. Then his expression turns suspicious. "It'd better not be fucking my eyebrows."

"I'd rather fuck your asshole, but maybe later."

"Okay, we'll talk."

"Sweet. Lube?" John asks. Zach gestures toward his nightstand and John fetches a condom from the top drawer, as well as a rather massive bottle of lube inside. He prepares himself as quickly as he can. "What is this, like, the industrial strength size? For elephant sex?"

"Costco, man." Zach laughs, trailing into a gasp when John carefully slides a slick finger into him. "There—there's one in Queens."

John smirks and slowly works his finger in and out of Zach's hole, adding a second when his muscles loosen. "I can't believe you went to Queens for lube," he says. Zach laughs, his back arching.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation while you're _finger fucking_ me. Just keep—oh, _fuck_ , John, _yes_ , oh, my god..."

"Yeah, Zach," John whispers, crooking his fingers. He seems to harden even more when Zach's cock jerks and leaves a wet patch on his stomach, the trail of hair there glistening. "Holy _shit_. A-are you ready? Please say you're ready."

"Ready, _ready_ , please..."

John nods hastily and looks around for a moment, trying to get his bearings straight. He reaches out for the lube again, wondering if he should use some more, when strong hands suddenly push him flat on his back, making him yelp.

"What the—"

"What the fuck is taking so long? Just put it in," Zach parrots from earlier, smiling as he straddles John's hips. "Okay, John, I will."

He holds John's cock steady by its base and steadily sinks down with a low groan, his head tipping back in pleasure. John reaches out instinctively and grabs Zach's thighs, trying desperately not to move. Zach feels so hot, clenching around him, shifting back and forth maddeningly until John's cock is completely buried inside. Then they both dare to look at each other, eyes dark with need, and John shakes with the urge to thrust.

"Fuck," he whispers, blinking up at Zach. "I might blow my load just looking at you."

"That could be a Hallmark card." He starts moving in earnest on John's cock and scratches lightly down his chest. "Better fuck me fast, just in case."

John moans his agreement and starts to work his hips, relieved to fuck Zach at last. He lets Zach lead at first, watches as he searches for the angle that suits him best, all while pawing at John's chest and flexing the muscles in his ass, making John's breath stutter. Zach seems to find it quickly enough, and when John hears that telltale lusty moan, he starts to thrust harder into Zach's heat. He keeps the angle up for a while, then teases him with shallow jerks of his hips.

"John," Zach gasps, his voice hoarse and eyes going glassy. His hand moves to his cock and John licks his lips at the sight, determined not to lose concentration.

"My turn," he says, pulling out of Zach and turning them over. He quickly takes advantage of Zach's disoriented state and ridiculous flexibility and hoists his legs over John's shoulders. Then he slides back home again, over and over, watching as Zach seems to slip further into a pre-orgasmic haze, head thrown back and eyes wide. Not that John can blame him; Zach's so bendable that the angle they're achieving is fucking _bliss_.

"Come on, Zach, touch yourself," John says, blinking away the sting of the sweat dripping down from his brow. Zach's hand is soon a blur on his cock, his voice seemingly trapped in his throat as he jacks himself hard and fast. John can't fucking take his eyes off him, not even after Zach stiffens and spurts his release all over his chest and stomach with an unabashed moan. He bows his head as his own orgasm approaches, taking shape as an atomic blast in his gut. It feels too good; he wants to hold off, wants to feel this good for as long as possible. But then Zach presses his lips to John's hair, tightens around his cock and whispers something that makes John surrender, crying out sharply as he thrusts and comes harder than he has in ages.

Miraculously, he remembers to let Zach lower his legs before collapsing in a heap against him. Zach kisses his temple in what could be gratitude.

"You should stalk me more often," Zach murmurs. "Or, you know, just...stay here a while. Until Trek starts? It'll give me more chances to cook, and...yeah."

"How are you even forming coherent thoughts right now?" John asks, lifting his head tiredly and laughing. He cleans Zach's chest with the rumpled bed sheet. "Yeah, though...that'd be good, I think. Really good."

"Good. Although..." Zach smiles shyly and John decides right then that he really likes that version of Zach's smile. "They're going to shave me again, you know." He bats his eyelashes. "Will you still love me when my eyebrows are gone, John?"

"Are you kidding? I've always wanted to fuck a hot Vulcan."

"Jesus Christ. You're such a fucking weirdo." Zach laughs and it's John's turn to look shy now. He smiles and takes the golden opportunity to burrow against Zach's chest.

"Yeah, well. You understand me."

"Yeah," Zach says, running his fingers down John's back. "I like to think I do."

*

John doesn't exactly know where he is when he wakes up, but the room smells of sex and Zach, and that's enough to jog his memory. Zach's not there, though, so he yawns and finds his boxers, pulling them on and heading to the kitchen, where his bag still sits from his arrival the night before. Once there, he's afforded a perfect view of Zach's ass high in the air as he does some sort of bizarre yoga pose in the living room.

"Hey, pretzel bu—"

"Shh," Zach interrupts. His eyes don't open to acknowledge John, nor does he move a muscle, holding his pose perfectly. "I'll blow you later if you're quiet now."

 _Good deal_ , John thinks. He nods and busies himself with finding Zach's cereal stash, which he finds could use the John Cho touch, i.e. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He pours himself a bowl of something that resembles twigs and berries as he checks his phone for messages. Then he flips over to his Twitter feed, grinning at what he finds.

 _new day. refreshed. yoga. soothes. the ache._

 _GOT SOME. SORE. DOWNWARD DOGGIN' IT._

John shakes his head, puts down his phone and procures the soy milk from Zach's fridge. As he sits down to eat and watch the Bendy Zach show, he makes a mental note that he definitely owes Chris a porn basket.


End file.
